Revenge
By: Paula L. Jones
Friday, January 5, 2102
“You know what’s crazy?” Lorne asks.
I grin. “You?”
“In addition to me,” he says.
I expect him to smile, but a heavy seriousness creeps into his expression.
“I still remember the first time I saw Willa,” he quietly says.
With this, Lorne sets his half-empty glass of whiskey down on the bar.
The Rec Room is crowded tonight. It's bustling with partying Earthlings and singing and dancing Maeterlings. Even a few of the less sociable aliens like Spree and Traxlings are in the mix.
Despite the room’s boisterous conversations, multiple howls of laughter, and the catchy beat played by the Maeterling band onstage, I’m staring at Lorne.
To be honest, I’ve been staring at Lorne for the past two years I’ve been aboard KJ-19.
And it’s not because he’s some sort of two-headed Traxling. He's anything but that.
The truth is, to this day, Lorne is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I say this as a woman who has lived many days and traveled to far flung areas of the universe, where I have seen many men. Not one is as good-looking as Lorne.
He’s built like a soldier, 6’4 and broad shouldered with rock hard abs and biceps that seem unreal. But there’s more to him than looks. His soul is like mine, restless and ready to wander, he’s always on the look-out for the next adventure.
Look deeply enough into his hazel eyes and not only will you see heroism, but you'll also pick up on a warmth that can only come from a truly beautiful soul.
Our personalities are almost identical, which is why we’ve become such good friends.
But now, as I watch him run a strong, tanned hand through his curly black locks, an ache creeps into my gut because I can’t help but imagine how satisfying it would feel if that hand were running through my hair as he brought his perfect rosebud mouth to meet my lips.
I bite down on my bottom lip harder than I should. But I have to if I'm going to push the unwanted thought away.
With this, I glance down at my glass of whiskey, which is empty.
As soon as Lorne gets past this alcohol-fused tale about Willa Idonos, I’m getting the bartender for a refill. And the only reason I'm waiting is because it would be rude to interrupt Lorne’s monologue.
“Do you?” I hear my voice crack on the second word. I clear my throat before continuing, “What do you remember?”
Lorne runs the index finger of his right hand along the rim of his glass.
I watch the movement, seduced by the thoughtless gesture.
Probably because I’m a tipsy.
I give my bottom lip another painful tug to force my thoughts away from that path.
“She was wearing a yellow uniform,” Lorne says, speaking so quietly I have to lean in to hear him above the din of the Rec room. As I do this, I get a whiff of his cologne, ‘Sands of Iris,’ a specialty cologne that’s only available on the Maeterling-colonized planet of Iris. I bought it for him when I was there on vacation three months ago.
“Phil,” Lorne says, finally looking up and meeting my eyes, his filled with love.
My pulse begins to race even as my stomach sinks.
As much as I adore this look in his eyes, I know it isn't meant for me.
“What?” I pin on a smile and press the Barkeep button at my left elbow.
“She was so beautiful,” Lorne emphasizes this last word and shakes his head as if in awe.
I realize I’m grinding my teeth and I force myself to stop.
“In yellow?” I laugh and try to sound like a friend who's simply joking as I say, “I’ve seen Willa in yellow and it’s not her color. You must have been drinking the day you met her.”
Lorne, temporarily tugged out of his moment of worship for the goddess that Willa, apparently, has become, frowns and gives me a look of scorn, “A, I wasn’t drunk because I’m not you. And B, it was actually yellow-gold because she was wearing the gold uniforms given to the first International Space Explorer cadets in 2025.”
My heart drops.
I’ve made him angry.
Like me, because we’re so similar, Lorne has a quick temper.
I arch an eyebrow and smile as I wag my index finger at him in school-teacher-fussing-at-naughty-student fashion, “I don’t drink any more than the average person and if you and Willa met in 2025, then congratulations because both of you look great for 77. You don’t look a day over 23.”
Lorne laughs because that’s how old he is, 23.
But I think the laugh is two-fold because as I’m speaking, the automated barkeep rolls its way to my seat and loudly asks, “Shall I pour you your eleventh glass of whiskey, Lt. Philomena?” which negates my claim of drinking no more than the average person.
“Yes,” I say to the robotic barkeep before returning my attention to Lorne, whose beautiful lips have formed a smirk as he narrows his eyes at me.
It’s a good look on him.
My heart flutters and I lean towards him with a grin, “My glass is tiny. So eleven of these is the equivalent of three regular-sized whiskeys.”
His eyebrows go up , “Keep telling yourself that, Phil.”
“I will, because it’s true,” I start to say more but the Barkeep’s deadpan voice interrupts me.
“Your eleventh glass of whiskey has been filled,” it says. “Please keep in mind that ISE Rec Rooms are only authorized to serve each guest up to twelve alcoholic beverages within a six-hour cycle.”
Lorne points to the Barkeep, but his hazel eyes remain on me as he dons a smug expression, “Did you hear that, Phil? He’s about to cut you off.”
I wave a dismissive hand and pretend his little joke about my drinking doesn’t bother me.
“I bet you had way more to drink than I’m having tonight when you first saw Willa in her yellow gold uniform. Because no one looked good in those outdated catsuits.” I turn to the Barkeep and say, “There’s no need to hover. You can leave.”
“As you wish,” it rolls off to the next customers who’ve summoned it.
I return my attention to Lorne and he's staring at me with a look of intense curiosity.
“Willa’s tiny,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “She can wear a skintight bodysuit with perfection.”
I take a long, satisfying gulp of my drink, it successfully numbs the sting of his Willa comments.
“She’s wide in the hips,” I point out, closing my eyes and savoring the whiskey’s taste as it scorches my throat in the most wonderful way.
“That’s where women are supposed to be wide,” Lorne says, “It’s part of what makes them attractive.”
“If you find overweight women attractive, then sure,” I shrug.
At the table behind me, a glass shatters. The noise is followed by a loud peal of laughter.
I turn to the table to see what’s happened but everthing is getting a bit too blurry and the ship begins to sway… or maybe I’m swaying.
“Phil,” Lorne’s left hand is on one of my shoulders. “You’re really drunk. I’m going to go to my room and-”
“And dream about Willa in a yellow-gold uniform that barely fits around her wide birthing hips?”
I’m not sure I meant to say that out loud.
I reach for my glass and Lorne wraps his hand around mine, stopping me.
“Let me walk you to your room,” he says, and I think he sounds stern but I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell because he isn't usually stern with me.
Not because I’m so much older than him and outrank him.
Lorne pays no attention to things like that.
But he rarely snaps at me because of how much he likes me. We’re so similar that it’s impossible for him to dislike me.
“You can walk me home,” I say, attempting to stand and accidentally knocking over my glass. I watch the amber-colored liquid spill all over the bar, some of it dripping to the floor.
“Oops,” I mutter.
“It’s okay, the Barkeep will take care of it,” Lorne says. “That’s the dumb thing’s job.”
I point to the mess. “You know? That looks like how I feel, in my heart. Splattered and everywhere.”
I sigh and silently tell myself to stop talking.
Lorne pats my shoulder affectionately. “You have a good heart, Phil, And you have me. I got you. So, don't worry. Okay?”
I just look at him and attempt a smile. I’m not sure it's successful.
A few blurry minutes later, we’re in front of my room.
“Here we are,” Lorne says. I squint under the hallway’s blinding fluorescent lights. Lorne points to the ID scanner at the right of my door, “You know the drill, put your palm on the scanner and let yourself in.”
I turn to him and place my palm on his left pec.
His eyes widen and he goes still.
I take another step towards him, my gaze not leaving his and the scent of his cologne filling my nostrils.
“Lorne, how do I let you in?” I press my palm into his chest a bit harder. “Like this? Or do I have to wear a yellow uniform? Will that work?”
Lorne wraps his hand around mine and lowers our joined palms.
He looks behind him and then to his left, nervousness in his eyes.
“You’re my friend,” he hesitates. “Not… not anything more.”
“Because I’m not Willa,” I close my eyes because they’re filling with tears.”I’m not young and skinny and exotic. I’m old and I drink too much and-”
“And you’re my mother,” Lorne hisses.
I open my eyes.
His tanned skin is now bright red and he’s looking over his shoulder again, as if we’re a pair of criminals at risk of being apprehended.
“I know I’m old, but I’m not that old,” I force a laugh and try to sound like I’m joking but more tears slip out of my eyes and I suddenly realize Lorne isn’t holding my hand anymore.
I’m not fooling anyone.
My heart is broken and Lorne can see that.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a whisper as he takes a step away from me. “I’m serious, Phil, remember that baby you carried and gave away before you joined ISE? That was me, I’m your son.”
I blink back at Lorne.
He grows blurrier and then there are two of him as the hallway spins like a ship caught in the alpha-wave of a supernova.
And then I’m throwing up.
And then I’m waking to the sound of my alarm.
I’m in my bedroom and the lights have come on, which is what automatically happens when my alarm goes off.
My mouth tastes of vomit and I’m still wearing last night’s uniform.
My stomach turns at the thought of last night. I can still see Lorne looking at me with a mix of fear, disgust, and irritation as he says, “You’re my mother.”
I close my eyes and a wave of hatred engulfs me.
His mother?
He was the baby I gave up at 22? The baby I didn’t bother naming or even looking at after it was born?
“It” was Lorne.
Like some character from an ancient myth, I’ve fallen in love with my own son.
Vomit fills my throat and I run to the bathroom.
As I’m rinsing out my mouth and wondering what sort of monster falls in love with her own son and whether or not I should ask KJ-19’s physician for another batch of anxiety meds, my intercom buzzes, alerting me to an incoming call.
“Yes?” I say, clearing my throat.
“Lt. Philomena,” a stern voice fills the room, “You’re late for tour duty. A group of visitors from Spree are waiting for you to lead them on a tour of KJ-19. Are you ill?”
“I’m not. I apologize. ETA, five minutes,” I scramble to wash my face and dress, grateful for the distraction of work.
At least now I’ll have more to think about than what could possibly be wrong with me.
“You know what’s crazy?” Lorne asks.
I grin. “You?”
“In addition to me,” he says.
I expect him to smile, but a heavy seriousness creeps into his expression.
“I still remember the first time I saw Willa,” he quietly says.
With this, Lorne sets his half-empty glass of whiskey down on the bar.
The Rec Room is crowded tonight. It's bustling with partying Earthlings and singing and dancing Maeterlings. Even a few of the less sociable aliens like Spree and Traxlings are in the mix.
Despite the room’s boisterous conversations, multiple howls of laughter, and the catchy beat played by the Maeterling band onstage, I’m staring at Lorne.
To be honest, I’ve been staring at Lorne for the past two years I’ve been aboard KJ-19.
And it’s not because he’s some sort of two-headed Traxling. He's anything but that.
The truth is, to this day, Lorne is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I say this as a woman who has lived many days and traveled to far flung areas of the universe, where I have seen many men. Not one is as good-looking as Lorne.
He’s built like a soldier, 6’4 and broad shouldered with rock hard abs and biceps that seem unreal. But there’s more to him than looks. His soul is like mine, restless and ready to wander, he’s always on the look-out for the next adventure.
Look deeply enough into his hazel eyes and not only will you see heroism, but you'll also pick up on a warmth that can only come from a truly beautiful soul.
Our personalities are almost identical, which is why we’ve become such good friends.
But now, as I watch him run a strong, tanned hand through his curly black locks, an ache creeps into my gut because I can’t help but imagine how satisfying it would feel if that hand were running through my hair as he brought his perfect rosebud mouth to meet my lips.
I bite down on my bottom lip harder than I should. But I have to if I'm going to push the unwanted thought away.
With this, I glance down at my glass of whiskey, which is empty.
As soon as Lorne gets past this alcohol-fused tale about Willa Idonos, I’m getting the bartender for a refill. And the only reason I'm waiting is because it would be rude to interrupt Lorne’s monologue.
“Do you?” I hear my voice crack on the second word. I clear my throat before continuing, “What do you remember?”
Lorne runs the index finger of his right hand along the rim of his glass.
I watch the movement, seduced by the thoughtless gesture.
Probably because I’m a tipsy.
I give my bottom lip another painful tug to force my thoughts away from that path.
“She was wearing a yellow uniform,” Lorne says, speaking so quietly I have to lean in to hear him above the din of the Rec room. As I do this, I get a whiff of his cologne, ‘Sands of Iris,’ a specialty cologne that’s only available on the Maeterling-colonized planet of Iris. I bought it for him when I was there on vacation three months ago.
“Phil,” Lorne says, finally looking up and meeting my eyes, his filled with love.
My pulse begins to race even as my stomach sinks.
As much as I adore this look in his eyes, I know it isn't meant for me.
“What?” I pin on a smile and press the Barkeep button at my left elbow.
“She was so beautiful,” Lorne emphasizes this last word and shakes his head as if in awe.
I realize I’m grinding my teeth and I force myself to stop.
“In yellow?” I laugh and try to sound like a friend who's simply joking as I say, “I’ve seen Willa in yellow and it’s not her color. You must have been drinking the day you met her.”
Lorne, temporarily tugged out of his moment of worship for the goddess that Willa, apparently, has become, frowns and gives me a look of scorn, “A, I wasn’t drunk because I’m not you. And B, it was actually yellow-gold because she was wearing the gold uniforms given to the first International Space Explorer cadets in 2025.”
My heart drops.
I’ve made him angry.
Like me, because we’re so similar, Lorne has a quick temper.
I arch an eyebrow and smile as I wag my index finger at him in school-teacher-fussing-at-naughty-student fashion, “I don’t drink any more than the average person and if you and Willa met in 2025, then congratulations because both of you look great for 77. You don’t look a day over 23.”
Lorne laughs because that’s how old he is, 23.
But I think the laugh is two-fold because as I’m speaking, the automated barkeep rolls its way to my seat and loudly asks, “Shall I pour you your eleventh glass of whiskey, Lt. Philomena?” which negates my claim of drinking no more than the average person.
“Yes,” I say to the robotic barkeep before returning my attention to Lorne, whose beautiful lips have formed a smirk as he narrows his eyes at me.
It’s a good look on him.
My heart flutters and I lean towards him with a grin, “My glass is tiny. So eleven of these is the equivalent of three regular-sized whiskeys.”
His eyebrows go up , “Keep telling yourself that, Phil.”
“I will, because it’s true,” I start to say more but the Barkeep’s deadpan voice interrupts me.
“Your eleventh glass of whiskey has been filled,” it says. “Please keep in mind that ISE Rec Rooms are only authorized to serve each guest up to twelve alcoholic beverages within a six-hour cycle.”
Lorne points to the Barkeep, but his hazel eyes remain on me as he dons a smug expression, “Did you hear that, Phil? He’s about to cut you off.”
I wave a dismissive hand and pretend his little joke about my drinking doesn’t bother me.
“I bet you had way more to drink than I’m having tonight when you first saw Willa in her yellow gold uniform. Because no one looked good in those outdated catsuits.” I turn to the Barkeep and say, “There’s no need to hover. You can leave.”
“As you wish,” it rolls off to the next customers who’ve summoned it.
I return my attention to Lorne and he's staring at me with a look of intense curiosity.
“Willa’s tiny,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “She can wear a skintight bodysuit with perfection.”
I take a long, satisfying gulp of my drink, it successfully numbs the sting of his Willa comments.
“She’s wide in the hips,” I point out, closing my eyes and savoring the whiskey’s taste as it scorches my throat in the most wonderful way.
“That’s where women are supposed to be wide,” Lorne says, “It’s part of what makes them attractive.”
“If you find overweight women attractive, then sure,” I shrug.
At the table behind me, a glass shatters. The noise is followed by a loud peal of laughter.
I turn to the table to see what’s happened but everthing is getting a bit too blurry and the ship begins to sway… or maybe I’m swaying.
“Phil,” Lorne’s left hand is on one of my shoulders. “You’re really drunk. I’m going to go to my room and-”
“And dream about Willa in a yellow-gold uniform that barely fits around her wide birthing hips?”
I’m not sure I meant to say that out loud.
I reach for my glass and Lorne wraps his hand around mine, stopping me.
“Let me walk you to your room,” he says, and I think he sounds stern but I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell because he isn't usually stern with me.
Not because I’m so much older than him and outrank him.
Lorne pays no attention to things like that.
But he rarely snaps at me because of how much he likes me. We’re so similar that it’s impossible for him to dislike me.
“You can walk me home,” I say, attempting to stand and accidentally knocking over my glass. I watch the amber-colored liquid spill all over the bar, some of it dripping to the floor.
“Oops,” I mutter.
“It’s okay, the Barkeep will take care of it,” Lorne says. “That’s the dumb thing’s job.”
I point to the mess. “You know? That looks like how I feel, in my heart. Splattered and everywhere.”
I sigh and silently tell myself to stop talking.
Lorne pats my shoulder affectionately. “You have a good heart, Phil, And you have me. I got you. So, don't worry. Okay?”
I just look at him and attempt a smile. I’m not sure it's successful.
A few blurry minutes later, we’re in front of my room.
“Here we are,” Lorne says. I squint under the hallway’s blinding fluorescent lights. Lorne points to the ID scanner at the right of my door, “You know the drill, put your palm on the scanner and let yourself in.”
I turn to him and place my palm on his left pec.
His eyes widen and he goes still.
I take another step towards him, my gaze not leaving his and the scent of his cologne filling my nostrils.
“Lorne, how do I let you in?” I press my palm into his chest a bit harder. “Like this? Or do I have to wear a yellow uniform? Will that work?”
Lorne wraps his hand around mine and lowers our joined palms.
He looks behind him and then to his left, nervousness in his eyes.
“You’re my friend,” he hesitates. “Not… not anything more.”
“Because I’m not Willa,” I close my eyes because they’re filling with tears.”I’m not young and skinny and exotic. I’m old and I drink too much and-”
“And you’re my mother,” Lorne hisses.
I open my eyes.
His tanned skin is now bright red and he’s looking over his shoulder again, as if we’re a pair of criminals at risk of being apprehended.
“I know I’m old, but I’m not that old,” I force a laugh and try to sound like I’m joking but more tears slip out of my eyes and I suddenly realize Lorne isn’t holding my hand anymore.
I’m not fooling anyone.
My heart is broken and Lorne can see that.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a whisper as he takes a step away from me. “I’m serious, Phil, remember that baby you carried and gave away before you joined ISE? That was me, I’m your son.”
I blink back at Lorne.
He grows blurrier and then there are two of him as the hallway spins like a ship caught in the alpha-wave of a supernova.
And then I’m throwing up.
And then I’m waking to the sound of my alarm.
I’m in my bedroom and the lights have come on, which is what automatically happens when my alarm goes off.
My mouth tastes of vomit and I’m still wearing last night’s uniform.
My stomach turns at the thought of last night. I can still see Lorne looking at me with a mix of fear, disgust, and irritation as he says, “You’re my mother.”
I close my eyes and a wave of hatred engulfs me.
His mother?
He was the baby I gave up at 22? The baby I didn’t bother naming or even looking at after it was born?
“It” was Lorne.
Like some character from an ancient myth, I’ve fallen in love with my own son.
Vomit fills my throat and I run to the bathroom.
As I’m rinsing out my mouth and wondering what sort of monster falls in love with her own son and whether or not I should ask KJ-19’s physician for another batch of anxiety meds, my intercom buzzes, alerting me to an incoming call.
“Yes?” I say, clearing my throat.
“Lt. Philomena,” a stern voice fills the room, “You’re late for tour duty. A group of visitors from Spree are waiting for you to lead them on a tour of KJ-19. Are you ill?”
“I’m not. I apologize. ETA, five minutes,” I scramble to wash my face and dress, grateful for the distraction of work.
At least now I’ll have more to think about than what could possibly be wrong with me.
***
“This,” I say, gesturing to the ship’s bustling medical bay waiting room, “is where crew members and visitors come when they’re ill. I came here myself just last week with a bad case of Maeter-tongue.”
The five visiting Spree I’ve been assigned to guide through a tour of KJ-19 look back at me with unreadable expressions on their small, gray faces.
I don’t especially care for Spree.
They’re overly sensitive cave-swelling loners with no sense of humor or adventure.
Not to mention that they’re ugly.
At 4’3 with fog-gray stick thin bodies, they’re hideous and it's no wonder their race is dying out.
Who would want to procreate with a Spree?
Even fellow Spree don’t seem to be thrilled with the idea.
But they’re guests of our ship and it’s my duty to give them a tour.
So, I force a polite smile and try to sound cordial, “Any questions so far?”
A female Spree says, “Yes. How did you catch Maeter-tongue?”
I nod. “That’s a good question.”
It isn’t.
It’s a completely irrelevant question that has nothing to do with our tour.
“I’m the ship’s interpreter,” I explain with a pleasant smile, which the female Spree doesn’t return. “So, when guests who don’t speak Universal come on board, I interpret all of their on-board interactions that require speech. And when a Maeterling was visiting last week, I was with him for hours at a time unaware that he was ill. So, I contracted the illness from him.
“You could have died,” the Spree says.
Annoyed, I widen my smile and reply, “But I didn’t. That’s what antidotes are for, which our ship has plenty of, and which is how I’m able to be here, healthy as ever, to lead your tour.”
“But no antidote is able to completely eradicate Maeter-tongue from the human bloodstream,” the female spree deadpans. “So, you’re not healthy. You’re still ill. It’s in your blood.”
I laugh, hoping it effectively hides my annoyance. “I’m not contagious and I feel wonderful. So, that’s the definition of healthy.”
“No it isn’t. Maeter-tongue is a serious disease,” she counters. “It may be dormant now, but should something trigger it, you could end up paralyzed or in a coma that leads to death.”
“If it hasn’t happened now, it’s unlikely to ever happen,” I say.
Before she can correct my erroneous definition, I clap my hands and continue, “Now, who wants to see the engine room? Let’s head that way!”
The five Spree follow me through the corridor and into the main elevator as I give them a few more facts about the vessel I’ve called home for the past two years.
“KJ-ISEV 19 stands for Katherine Johnson International Space Exploration Vessel 19. The Katherine Johnson models were named after a twentieth century mathematician whose calculations were critical to the first U.S. space flights. This ship is the 19th version of its design. It was built in 2099 and christened in 2100.”
“Okay,” I say as the elevator comes to a halt and buzzes. “We’ve reached engineering. Sit tight and I’ll just let the head of engineering know we’re here.”
As I step out of the lift and into engineering, my stomach sinks.
This is where Lorne works.
My mouth goes dry and I want to turn around.
I take a deep breath and start down the corridor which ends in a fork.
Left will take me to engineering.
I start left when the unmistakable sound of Lorne’s laugh stops me.
The sound comes from just ahead and around the corner where the reception area is.
“You mean, you didn’t even want a one-time fly-by?” an unfamiliar male voice asks. “She’s not the worst looking uniform on this ship.”
“No, but she’s old!” Lorne exclaims with such drama it startles me. “Have you seen her body? She’s like a bowl of melting ice cream, nothing where it’s supposed to be. What am I supposed to do with that?”
I freeze as all of the men laugh.
Me. He’s talking about me.
I want to leave, but I can’t. It’s like my feet are rooted to the floor.
“So, how’d you get her to back off?” a guy asks.
“Pure genius,” Lorne says, pride in his voice, “When I first came on board she was so attached to me, I did some digging to make sure she wasn’t some psycho stalker-type. Those types always come after me. Anyway, I found out she’d had a baby and given it up for adoption 25 years ago.”
“Okay,” a guy says in an expectant tone.
“Hold your horses, Dean, you’ll see how genius I am in a second,” Lorne says with a smugness that makes my lips curl into a snarl. “I told ol’ melted ice cream she was my mother.”
Howls of laughter drift from around the corner and my hands ball into fists.
An array of emotions thunder through me. Relief, anger, humiliation, and rage.
He thinks I’m a joke.
That arrogant child thinks I’m a joke.
I lift my chin, square my shoulders and bite down on my bottom lip, hard. Hard enough to draw blood.
I saunter around the corner to the group of laughing men circling Lorne like pack dogs around their alpha.
I shove each man aside, ignore their laughter and then abrupt silence as I approach Lorne.
I look him in the eye, relishing the fear I see in the now-widened hazel gems.
“Uh, Phil, I, uh, I didn’t-”
I interrupt his stammering by planting my lips on his in a deep, wet kiss that sends tingles from the very top of my head to the bottoms of my feet.
He doesn’t push me away or kiss me in return. He’s completely still except for his rapidly beating heart and shallow breaths.
After endless seconds of the most depressing bliss, I release him with a shove.
He stumbles backward and I look at him, wide-eyed with bloodstained lips.
We really are alike.
That’s the one thing I got right about him.
“You know what’s crazy?” I ask.
Lorne blinks back at me, silent as do the other gaping men who’ve parted to stand at his far left and far right.
“I don’t remember the first time we met,” I say. “But I’ll remember this moment forever. And so will you.”
I wipe the blood from my lips, turn around, and walk away.
As I return to the waiting group of Spree tourists, I realize I've had it all backwards.
Lorne is the ugly one.
As for the Spree... well, sometimes it pays to listen to an overly-serious alien who talks too much.
Because sometimes, you hear the very key to reclaiming your pride and exacting revenge.
The five visiting Spree I’ve been assigned to guide through a tour of KJ-19 look back at me with unreadable expressions on their small, gray faces.
I don’t especially care for Spree.
They’re overly sensitive cave-swelling loners with no sense of humor or adventure.
Not to mention that they’re ugly.
At 4’3 with fog-gray stick thin bodies, they’re hideous and it's no wonder their race is dying out.
Who would want to procreate with a Spree?
Even fellow Spree don’t seem to be thrilled with the idea.
But they’re guests of our ship and it’s my duty to give them a tour.
So, I force a polite smile and try to sound cordial, “Any questions so far?”
A female Spree says, “Yes. How did you catch Maeter-tongue?”
I nod. “That’s a good question.”
It isn’t.
It’s a completely irrelevant question that has nothing to do with our tour.
“I’m the ship’s interpreter,” I explain with a pleasant smile, which the female Spree doesn’t return. “So, when guests who don’t speak Universal come on board, I interpret all of their on-board interactions that require speech. And when a Maeterling was visiting last week, I was with him for hours at a time unaware that he was ill. So, I contracted the illness from him.
“You could have died,” the Spree says.
Annoyed, I widen my smile and reply, “But I didn’t. That’s what antidotes are for, which our ship has plenty of, and which is how I’m able to be here, healthy as ever, to lead your tour.”
“But no antidote is able to completely eradicate Maeter-tongue from the human bloodstream,” the female spree deadpans. “So, you’re not healthy. You’re still ill. It’s in your blood.”
I laugh, hoping it effectively hides my annoyance. “I’m not contagious and I feel wonderful. So, that’s the definition of healthy.”
“No it isn’t. Maeter-tongue is a serious disease,” she counters. “It may be dormant now, but should something trigger it, you could end up paralyzed or in a coma that leads to death.”
“If it hasn’t happened now, it’s unlikely to ever happen,” I say.
Before she can correct my erroneous definition, I clap my hands and continue, “Now, who wants to see the engine room? Let’s head that way!”
The five Spree follow me through the corridor and into the main elevator as I give them a few more facts about the vessel I’ve called home for the past two years.
“KJ-ISEV 19 stands for Katherine Johnson International Space Exploration Vessel 19. The Katherine Johnson models were named after a twentieth century mathematician whose calculations were critical to the first U.S. space flights. This ship is the 19th version of its design. It was built in 2099 and christened in 2100.”
“Okay,” I say as the elevator comes to a halt and buzzes. “We’ve reached engineering. Sit tight and I’ll just let the head of engineering know we’re here.”
As I step out of the lift and into engineering, my stomach sinks.
This is where Lorne works.
My mouth goes dry and I want to turn around.
I take a deep breath and start down the corridor which ends in a fork.
Left will take me to engineering.
I start left when the unmistakable sound of Lorne’s laugh stops me.
The sound comes from just ahead and around the corner where the reception area is.
“You mean, you didn’t even want a one-time fly-by?” an unfamiliar male voice asks. “She’s not the worst looking uniform on this ship.”
“No, but she’s old!” Lorne exclaims with such drama it startles me. “Have you seen her body? She’s like a bowl of melting ice cream, nothing where it’s supposed to be. What am I supposed to do with that?”
I freeze as all of the men laugh.
Me. He’s talking about me.
I want to leave, but I can’t. It’s like my feet are rooted to the floor.
“So, how’d you get her to back off?” a guy asks.
“Pure genius,” Lorne says, pride in his voice, “When I first came on board she was so attached to me, I did some digging to make sure she wasn’t some psycho stalker-type. Those types always come after me. Anyway, I found out she’d had a baby and given it up for adoption 25 years ago.”
“Okay,” a guy says in an expectant tone.
“Hold your horses, Dean, you’ll see how genius I am in a second,” Lorne says with a smugness that makes my lips curl into a snarl. “I told ol’ melted ice cream she was my mother.”
Howls of laughter drift from around the corner and my hands ball into fists.
An array of emotions thunder through me. Relief, anger, humiliation, and rage.
He thinks I’m a joke.
That arrogant child thinks I’m a joke.
I lift my chin, square my shoulders and bite down on my bottom lip, hard. Hard enough to draw blood.
I saunter around the corner to the group of laughing men circling Lorne like pack dogs around their alpha.
I shove each man aside, ignore their laughter and then abrupt silence as I approach Lorne.
I look him in the eye, relishing the fear I see in the now-widened hazel gems.
“Uh, Phil, I, uh, I didn’t-”
I interrupt his stammering by planting my lips on his in a deep, wet kiss that sends tingles from the very top of my head to the bottoms of my feet.
He doesn’t push me away or kiss me in return. He’s completely still except for his rapidly beating heart and shallow breaths.
After endless seconds of the most depressing bliss, I release him with a shove.
He stumbles backward and I look at him, wide-eyed with bloodstained lips.
We really are alike.
That’s the one thing I got right about him.
“You know what’s crazy?” I ask.
Lorne blinks back at me, silent as do the other gaping men who’ve parted to stand at his far left and far right.
“I don’t remember the first time we met,” I say. “But I’ll remember this moment forever. And so will you.”
I wipe the blood from my lips, turn around, and walk away.
As I return to the waiting group of Spree tourists, I realize I've had it all backwards.
Lorne is the ugly one.
As for the Spree... well, sometimes it pays to listen to an overly-serious alien who talks too much.
Because sometimes, you hear the very key to reclaiming your pride and exacting revenge.
The End